


My Closest Enemy

by Bazylia_de_Grean



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Rebellion Era - All Media Types
Genre: Drama, F/M, Rivalmance, Star Wars politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-05-17 12:52:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5870365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/pseuds/Bazylia_de_Grean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There are also those who talk about opposing the Empire with other means than words. You’d be wise to stay away from them.”<br/>She smiles wryly. “Why warning me, moff Tarkin? Why the effort?”<br/>His face is impassive. “Consider this me being sentimental.”<br/>They have never really been political allies, and now, even though they are not enemies openly... Perhaps they will never be, she muses. Perhaps there will be no declaration of war, just polite, meaningless conversations, a taunt or two from time to time... And both of them wondering how to stab the other in the back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (All Star Wars Expanded Universe/Legends characters belong to their respective creators. I just borrow them for a while.)

 

 

She takes one last glance at the screen, to watch the ships enter hyperspace, each one flying in another direction to eventually meet in one place. Most of them will not return. But someone will succeed and bring back the plans, she is certain. And if not... there will be others. There always are. Everything has a price, and they are willing to pay a high price for getting free of fear.

Their secret war has been going on for years, and she lost any illusions – delusions – long ago. Somewhere on the way she has also lost her fire. She is no longer that energetic, restless senator she used to be, and the fire is gone from her eyes. No, now she is a stately, reasonable leader of the Rebel Alliance.

Some of them kids who are new to all this mess enjoy it, in some way – the adventure, the thrill. Logical, she thinks. Pretty, heroic tales of war to keep fear and anxiety at bay, she can understand that well, even if she no longer enjoys either fighting or politics, and this war is both. There is no glory in war. Really, it is all just like a game of holochess, moving pawns across the galaxy and hoping the enemy will somehow miss the change on the board.

Some of their agents will never come back. Some will be captured by the Empire. They know the risk. They know no one will come for them if they fail.

Her soldiers do what they can to save their friends, and she praises them for it. But she learned to sacrifice people years ago. She will not risk ten lives to save one; the Alliance does not have enough soldiers to fight the Empire openly, so she will not risk any life she does not have to.

Resources, that is what they are. Pawns on the chessboard. Years ago, she used to argue fiercely against such attitude, but since then she has accepted it as her own. That is what allows her to be logical and calm about it all. Others are not like that – firm believers, wholeheartedly giving themselves up to the case – but someone has to be the mind behind it all, because will alone is not enough to win. So she lets others be enthusiastic about their fight, have their legends and illusions and everything, she even encourages it, because it helps them to be braver, it helps them face death, while she is moving pieces across the board of the galaxy.

When the last ship disappears from the screen, she reaches for a data crystal lying on her desk. There are many scratches on its surface, so many it would be impossible to ever use it again. She has not used it in years, anyway. By now, it is nothing but a reminder.

A corner of Mon Mothma’s lips curls up into a mirthless, but challenging smile.

 _Your move, Wilhuff_.


	2. Chapter 2

When she will recall it later, she will often think how easily it could have never happened. If she never went to the Senate session that day, maybe she would never meet him.

They are dealing with what remains of the Trade Federation – yet another session wasted, she thinks. They have been discussing the problem on and off for almost half a year since the Naboo Crisis. It frustrates her sometimes how slowly the Senate works. So, since it is not likely anything conclusive will be achieved, she is planning not to go. But then, at noon – during a traditional, small stimcaf break that most senators enjoy – Bail calls and says that it seems there could finally be some progress, but they could use another of her passionate speeches, and with a sigh, she agrees. She never says no to a friend, she is foolishly loyal like that.

When she arrives for the second part of the sessions, she goes straight into the Alderaanian booth, to quietly and quickly discuss things with Bail. She has no speech ready, but she has done enough of them over the course of the last few months to be able to improvise. True, she might be one of the youngest senators, but those who underestimated her because of that have quickly learned that with her quick wits she can be a mighty opponent in any discussion.

“It’s been almost a year since the Naboo crisis,” she speaks loudly, clearly. “And what consequences has the Trade Federation suffered? Raised taxes? Being banned from trade on a few planets, which is not even a Senate initiative, but some of the more decisive governments?” She turns, and her holoimage turns with her, looking across the Senate. “Chancellor Palpatine promised us he will make this Senate effective once again.” She turns towards the Chancellor, her look challenging, bordering on accusatory. By now every senator knows that she is not afraid of voicing her opinion quite straightforwardly, even if she is always diplomatic enough about it. “It the task beyond your capabilities, Chancellor?” she asks. “Or are you just going back on your word? Because it seems that all this Senate can do is setting up another committee, which wastes hours on discussions which do not result in a single meaningful action.” This is exaggeration, of course, because the Senate does _something_ , after all, however insignificant the matters it solves. But most of her fellow politicians love a speech with a more dramatic flair to it, and she aims not to disappoint. After all, she wants them to listen – or, more importantly, to get them to agree with her. “If it had been my planet,” she emphasises the phrase, reminding everyone where Palpatine hails from, “I would do everything I could to see the Trade Federation disbanded.” She looks around again. “Is this really all we can do? Sit and discuss the same problems over and over, without ever finding a solution? And to think some of us have the audacity to accuse the Jedi Order of growing stale, when they were the only ones on Coruscant who actually did anything to help Naboo back then!” Her arguments are logical and her voice is strong, her manner of speaking passionate and her gaze fierce, because this always wins the Senate. The first wins the rationalists, and the second wins those more emotional, like Shayla Paige, who discreetly gives her a thumbs-up. Beside Shayla, there is an unfamiliar man, his gaze fixed on Mon Mothma. He is listening, and seems genuinely interested. “Have we really grown so complacent?” Her brow furrows. “Do those of us who take bribes don’t even have the decency to do something they are paid for twice?” Accusations, though, are not a good way to end a speech, however true they might be. “I still believe in the Republic. I still believe we can use the energy we waste on pointless arguments and turn it into action. There is only one question. It’s not about resources or credits, or even influence of this or that sector or planet.” She straightens even more, raising her head higher. “The question is whether we have the courage to actually do something and then take responsibility for our actions.” She nods curtly and sits down, turning off the holo-projector.

When the holo of her face disappears, there is a moment of silence, and then slowly growing applause. She can see that Bail was one of the first to start clapping hands, and she does not need to look to know that Garm Bel Iblis was another. Not everyone is as enthusiastic about her speech, though, as she discreetly glances around to see who does not bother to join the others. Information is a power all on its own, and the knowledge who is the enemy is priceless. Not to mention it can be useful – because those bought once can always be bought again, by someone else. Unlike Bail, she believes in effectiveness more than fair play.

After that, she takes another look at the man beside Shayla. He is sitting in his place calmly – unlike Shayla, who is smiling and clapping her hands enthusiastically. When he notices she is looking at him, he holds her gaze for a moment, then nods to her and raises his hands in a silent applause.

. . .

Afterwards, when the sessions is over and everyone is trying to get out of the Senate building, she walks into Shayla, who immediately starts talking, congratulating her cordially. The man beside her – tall, lean, with a somehow harsh face – looks at Mon Mothma calmly, his stoic manner a stark contrast to Shayla’s emotional reaction.

“An impressive speech, senator,” he compliments.

Shayla smiles at her. “Meet my cousin, Wilhuff Tarkin, the newly-appointed governor of Eriadu. Wilhuff, this is Mon Mothma, the senator of Chandrila.”

Shaking hands is not a common practice in the Senate, because of how highly some races and cultures value personal space. The official greeting is a light bow, and that is exactly what Tarkin does.

“It’s a pleasure, senator.” His voice is smooth, his words measured and his moves controlled, but there is an indication of almost restless energy and durasteel strength hidden underneath.

Mon Mothma bows her head gracefully. Tarkin’s name rings a bell, but for a moment she cannot... Ah, yes, Eriadu’s troubles with the pirates. Back then, she was too young to pay attention to what was going on in the galaxy, but she has read some analysis of Eriadu’s solution to the problem, and one account that might have been written by Tarkin himself, now that she thinks on it.

“It definitely is, governor.” She is careful to make the words sound polite, not flirtatious, but a spark of interest flares in Tarkin’s piercing blue eyes. It excites her.

“I’m afraid we have to go. A few influential friends Wilhuff promised to introduce me to and whatnot.” Shayla smiles. “See you around later.”

“Dejarik at _Hyperspace_ tomorrow, Shayla, don’t forget.” She smiles back.

Shayla giggles. “Bail is a slow learner, isn’t he? Right, tomorrow. Bye.”

“Goodbye,” Mon Mothma answers, more formally, nodding to both Shayla and Tarkin.

Tarkin says nothing, just bows his head, his eyes fixed on Mon Mothma’s face. Then Shayla takes his arm and they leave. Mon Mothma watches them – well, him – thoughtfully.

Tarkin carries himself with confidence and elegance, and there is an unmistakable air of charisma about him. He is a few years older than her, just enough to make things more interesting. What is most interesting, however, is how he was focused on what she said, and not on her appearance.

All things considered, he looks like a challenge. And challenge is something Mon Mothma cannot walk away from.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (My vision of Chandrila might be inconsistent with its Expanded Universe/Legends descriptions. Okay, it is. Wookieepedia confused me with all those canon and Legends articles, and before I discovered the latter, I already had a complete headcanon.)

It takes a while before she meets him again – Chandrila does not have many diplomatic relations with Eriadu, and when governor Tarkin is on Coruscant, he is always busy meeting with one or another acquaintance. In her free time, Mon Mothma reads whatever she can find on Tarkin, and watches holovids of his speeches in the Senate. It seems that his charisma, she thinks with an amused smile, made a lasting impression.

But when she receives news from home that the Greenhouse Project – Chandrilans are not the most creative when it comes to naming things – she immediately recognises it as a pretext she has been looking for. Chandrila is cold, and for the agriculture to prosper, they need enormous greenhouses. Which, in turn, need great amounts of transparisteel. They have reliable factories on Chandrila, but to make transparisteel, they need lommite. Which is mainly imported to the Core Words from Eriadu.

Not quite able to keep herself from smiling, she writes a message to Shayla about a possible, mutually-beneficial trade agreement between their planets. And just as she hoped, Shayla suggest she could talk about it with governor Tarkin himself, given that he is on Coruscant right now. Negotiations with Shayla would be much easier, as she finds economic matters a very dull subject – but Mon Mothma considers negotiations with Tarkin a much more interesting and appealing prospect.

It has been some time since her last – and very short-lived – love affair, and the governor is an intriguing man. And she is very curious as to how the negotiations might end. She knows everything about him that there is to be found in commonly available sources, and now she would like to really get to know him – not Tarkin as a politician or military commander, but just as himself.

. . .

“Senator.” Tarkin’s face is serious, but she has a feeling that he is amused by their discussion. Or, more accurately, by her attempt to get him to lower the price a little. “I truly admire you persistence. But perhaps you should know that the whole idea of trade is that the seller aims to make credits.”

Mon Mothma musters her most charming smile. “I am well aware of that, governor.” It is not that Chandrila cannot pay that much, it is simply about her honour as a diplomat.

“But you don’t give up, regardless of that knowledge,” he notes.

“How could I?” She feigns offence. “What would you think of me, then, governor?” She puts a hand to her chest. “It’s a matter of Chandrila’s honour,” she announces, pretending that she is sombre. It would be easier is she did not have to suppress laughter.

For the first time since they met, Tarkin actually smiles. “I think, senator, that this farce is a waste of your talent.”

She shrugs, and smiles back. “But amusing nonetheless, isn’t it?”

“Too amusing, perhaps.” He looks at her thoughtfully, with interest. “I think we should take a break. You would not say no to a cup of caf, senator, would you?”

They drink caf, chatting leisurely. She asks about Eriadu, and he starts talking about his home planet’s industry and about the scarce, still intact wild areas. His voice, when he is not giving a speech, is smooth and cultured, and she finds it pleasant to listen to. Briefly, she wonders how it would sound in different circumstances.

There is something in Wilhuff Tarkin that draws her to him. Charisma, certainly, and the fact that he is Eriadu’s governor has its appeal, too. Ambition. Intelligence. But there is something more. As he speaks, she thinks that in a way, he is similar to his planet: all civilised on the outside, but with almost primal energy simmering underneath. A curious mixture. And perhaps a description that is too poetic... Although, to think of it, his face could be a face of a poet or artist, if his expression was less harsh, softer.

Tarkin notices that she is staring, and a corner of his mouth lifts in a confident smile. Mon Mothma realises she is not the first woman who has looked at him that way. Of course not. Power and charisma attract a lot of ladies. And it seems that Tarkin knows it very well.

“I am glad you find my words so interesting, senator,” he says, with a gleam to his eyes.

He is not the first man looking at her like that, either... But he is the first who seems equally interested in her and her opinions, in what she thinks and what she says. He is not only interested; whenever they talk, he gives her his undivided attention. And she really appreciates that.

“Fascinating,” she replies with a bold smile. He is interested, she is interested, there is no point in making it difficult when it does not have to be. And, after all, what happens on Coruscant stays on Coruscant.

. . .

“You two are haggling like Tatooine water sellers,” Shayla comments, amused, when she peeks into Tarkin’s office an hour later. “Well, enjoy your negotiations while I go and have a nice evening at _Hyperspace_.” She waves at them merrily and withdraws, closing the door behind her.

The thing is, they both actually enjoy it. It is good to be able to try and prove a point to someone who cannot be persuaded easily, but listens attentively to her every argument. Even if the whole discussion is very much pointless, it is still a good exercise in diplomacy and rhetoric. Judging by the look of approval in Tarkin’s eyes, he has similar thoughts on the matter.

“You really are persuasive, senator,” he compliments.

She smiles, suppressing the urge to grin. “You have no idea, governor.” Her answer is an obvious flirt.

“I think I can make an educated guess.” His smiles briefly, no doubt understanding her intention. “But not persuasive enough, not yet.”

“Not yet?” She gives him a challenging look. “It sounds like I’m slowly getting there.”

“It’s really simple, senator. You want your planet to gain as much as possible, and I want the same for mine, and that will not change, no matter how much we keep discussing it. We’ve reached an impasse. So, we could just give a little ground and try to compromise...”

Mon Mothma smiles defiantly. “Now, governor, where is the fun in that?”

“Or we can argue... Ah, pardon, negotiate some more, and only then try to compromise.”

“That plan is much more appealing, isn’t it?” she asks, which earns her another of his half-smiles.

“Tomorrow, then, senator?”

“Tomorrow. My office this time. Shayla will be glad she won’t have to listen to our haggling anymore. And after we’re done with all the haggling... Ah, pardon, diplomacy.. we can compromise and sign the agreement.”

“Very well.”

When she offers her hand – just for a handshake – he bows lightly and kisses her palm formally, his lips barely touching her skin. There is nothing formal about the way he is looking at her, though, and a shiver runs down her spine.

“I look forward to continuing our negotiations, governor,” she says, smiling. And flirting.

“As do I, senator.” Tarkin’s smile is polite, nothing more, but the look in his eyes tells a completely different story. “As do I.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Any progress with the Trade Federation?” Tarkin asks, when they forsake negotiations in favour of a short caf break.

“You know very well that there isn’t,” Mon Mothma replies pointedly.

“That is the way the Senate works.” He watches her thoughtfully. “And one person, even as energetic and dedicated as you, senator, cannot change it.”

She gives him a long look. “And what would you do, governor?”

“If the Federation ever threatened Eriadu?” He takes a sip of caf. “Obliterate them.”

“Violence is not the solution,” she protests, with absolute faith in what she is saying.

“Violence? No. But,” Tarkin raises a finger, “fear often is.”

She huffs. “I am a diplomat, governor. That is not the way diplomats solve problems.”

“Which perhaps is the reason we still have some of those problems to solve,” he remarks mildly.

“Should I feel offended?” Mon Mothma asks, trying to keep calm. She puts her cup on the small table, gets up and starts pacing.

“That was not my intention, senator,” Tarkin answers evenly. He gets up, too. “Perhaps I chose my words poorly,” he adds graciously. “I only meant to say that there are some problems which diplomacy cannot solve. What is happening in the Senate now is a perfect example of that.”

“That does not prove diplomacy cannot solve this, only that most of our diplomats are incompetent,” she replies firmly.

“In a few years, you will see things differently,” he says calmly, as if it was supposed to end the discussion.

At that, Mon Mothma’s temper flares to life. Nothing irks her as much as mentioning her age. So yes, she is younger than most of her fellow senator, and what of it? Despite that, she is much more efficient, and one of the few who are actually trying to do something, and blast it, Tarkin must know that.

Not caring for etiquette, she points a finger at his chest. “I’ll let you use that patronising tone with me, governor, when I spot a silver hair on your head. I don’t see any right now.” Now, this is just ridiculous. He is not that much older. “Do you think competence comes with age? Then look around the Senate! It doesn’t!” She takes a breath, not wishing to cross too many lines, but really, of all people, Tarkin should know better. She expected better, after their first short talk in the Senate and after their next meetings.

There is a slight smirk on Tarkin lips. “I must say, I didn’t expect that of you.”

“Nor did I expect that of you, governor.” Well, she can just as well tell him straightforwardly what she thinks. “I really thought you would be one of the few who see more than just my face.”

“I do,” he replies seriously. He watches her with interest, and there is a glint to his eyes that she cannot quite decipher. “I just think that you are too smart to believe some of the things you cling to.”

“I will be the judge of that.”

This time, Tarkin smiles, however briefly. “Such a temper under a mask of calm and serenity. Even more than I expected.”

She huffs. “Anything else you expected, governor?” She smiles wryly. “I’d hate to disappoint.” She is not certain if she is mocking him or trying to flirt.

What she is certain of is that one moment they are still one step from arguing, and the very next moment they are kissing with all the passion and fire that have been heating their discussion. His hands come to rest just below her waist, and her fingers curl into a fist in his hair, their bodies pressed together. When they finally part, they are both breathing heavily.

“Governor.” Mon Mothma smirks. “How very ungentlemanly.” But she makes no move to pull away from him.

“Senator.” His smile is predatory. “How very unladylike.”

“So...” She idly moves her palm up his chest, toying with the buttons of his uniform. “We can either finish our discussion and return to the trade agreement now...”

“Or?” He arches an eyebrow at her.

“Or we can finish our discussion and return to the trade agreement...” She makes a pause and gives him a challenging look. “Later,” she adds, unabashed, smiling.

As she expected, Wilhuff Tarkin is not a man who would walk away from a challenge.

“Later,” he says curtly, not wasting breath on words.

Good, Mon Mothma decides a moment later, because kissing definitely seems to be a better way of wasting breath. Yes, trade negotiations with Eriadu have just become much more interesting.

For once, she is glad that her robe is simple enough to take it off without assistance. A clasp here, a button there, and she pulls the robe over her head, throwing it to the floor, which leaves her only in her underwear and a thin slip made of Lashaa silk. There is a glint to Tarkin’s eyes as he watches her, and Mon Mothma smiles in satisfaction.

She pulls him close and they kiss greedily. Her fingers make a quick work of his belt and tunic, while his hands slide across her body. For such a cold man, she thinks as she leans into his touch, he has surprisingly warm hands.

When they get to the bedroom – luckily, managing not to stumble, even though they are distracted by kissing, and she is focused on trying to get him out of his clothes on the way – Tarkin pauses to take a quick glance around the room. Mon Mothma wants to laugh. For two people that barely know each other, they seem to know each other surprisingly well – and that tells her she was not the only one interested enough to spend hours searching through the Holonet archives. Good, she thinks, and the triumph tastes like caf and _him_ on her tongue.

His guess is right – she was planning this – well, half-planning, half-hoping for this, really – and took extra care to make her bedroom look right. Not too tidy, as not to make an impression that she wanted it to look presentable just for the occasion. Everything is in order, except for tiny little details, natural but arranged to look slightly less chaotic – a datapad on the bed, the sheets looking as if she took a nap during the day and forgot to straighten them, a shimmersilk robe thrown over a chair at the vanity table.

Tarkin smiles at her, amused, but there is also a note of satisfaction there, as if he just scored a point or won a duel. “You’ve been planning this, senator?” he asks, his voice lower than usually and slightly husky, his hand moving up her spine.

“Is my plan working?” she asks, looking at him with a defiant smile. “Besides, governor...” She brushes her lips across his jaw. “Haven’t you been planning?” She nips at his neck lightly, right where she can feel his pulse. It quickens, and she can hear Tarkin’s sharp intake of breath.

He pulls away a little, just enough to look at her. “You think it is a war of some kind, then?”

“A duel?” she supplies, tugging his shirt up and over his head, her hands impatient to touch skin.

His smile and the hunger in his eyes thrill her. “You should know, senator, that I am quite adept at strategy and tactics.”

She wraps her arm around his neck, curling her fingers into his hair, her other hand venturing slowly down his chest. “Ah, governor...” She tries to smile seductively, but fails, and her attempt ends in a bout of laughter. “That’s exactly what I’m counting on.”

. . .

“Just in case this happened again, you can sigh my name once or twice next time,” Mon Mothma suggests. She is lying on her side, propped on her elbow, her cheek leaning onto her hand. And she is watching.

Wilhuff Tarkin in lean, bordering on thin. What his clothes do not show is that underneath he is wiry, all bones and skin and muscle. His face would never catch her attention, either, except maybe for his piercing eyes. But physical appearance is not that important. Charisma, strength of will, intellect and ambition which can rival her own – those are things that she finds the most attractive in men, and Wilhuff Tarkin has those in abundance.

“I would gladly comply with the lady’s wishes,” he says, somewhat mockingly, “if I knew your name. Senator,” he adds.

To say she is impressed would be an overstatement. But still, not many people know that Chandrilan senators use a honorific rather than their real names. It is clear she is not the only one who did some research. Not that she expected anything less of him.

Mon Mothma smiles graciously and offers her hand. “Reila Ys. It’s...” she smiles suggestively, “a pleasure, governor.”

Tarkin snorts. “Well, at your service.” He takes her outstretched hand and kisses it formally. Then presses a more heated kiss to her wrist.

“Now, now.” She bats his hand away. “Our trade agreement is waiting, governor.” She gets up, smiling triumphantly when she feels his gaze on her. Without hurry – what would be the point if he has seen everything already? – she walks to the vanity table and picks up her robe. It is long, covering her from neck to ankles, and would be modest if it was not made of shimmersilk – as it is, it clings to her silhouette, leaving very little to imagination. When she turns back to Tarkin, the looks in his eyes tells her clearly that he approves.

“Fine.” He sits up, glancing around for his uniform.

She laughs. “It doesn’t meant we can’t continue later.” She turns to the wardrobe. “I can get you something, but I’m afraid the best I have is shadowsilk.”

Tarkin shrugs. “Will do.” He gets up and when she throws him the robe, he puts it on. Most men would look funny. Truth to be told, he does, too, but he prefers not to notice it, does not even allow himself to think that, just behaves as if it was completely normal that he was wearing a robe painted in light arabesques, and it somehow lessens the comical effect.

They do not return to bed, however. Between discussing the final details of the trade agreement, and then just the politics of Eriadu and Chandrila, they are both too preoccupied to think of anything else.

“Thank you for a very... enlightening afternoon, senator,” Tarkin, back in his uniform and buttoned up to his neck, bows his head slightly.

“And you, governor.” She smiles. “Perhaps I can enlighten you again someday.”

“Perhaps.” His smile is polite, but there is a gleam to his eyes. “Do you play holochess, senator?”

“I do. Which kind do you prefer and why Divoran?” It is a guess on her part, but an educated one. It seems obvious that he would choose the type of chess which requires strategic and tactical thinking the most.

Tarkin smiles. “Very observant, senator.”

“I’m a politician. Being good at reading people is required for the job.”

“That good, are you?” Now he is challenging her.

And she, just like him, cannot simply walk away from a challenge.

“Wait and see, governor. Wait and see.”

“Should I call you about that game of chess, then?”

“You can find me in _Hyperspace_ some evening.” If she was talking to anyone else, she would wink. Because it is Tarkin, she just smiles. “We can play a game or two, drink some wine, talk politics.”

The look in his eyes is promising more than just a game of chess. “I most certainly will.”


	5. Chapter 5

The first time they play holochess at _Hyperspace_ , they initially draw some attention, but no one is interested in their game. There are some whispers and a few amused glances – and Garm, her usual chess partner, just openly laughs at her.

“I’ll drink you health when you lose,” he promises with a wink.

It is not difficult to guess that most of the patrons here think that Tarkin is a formidable opponent at holochess. But she never doubted it. On the contrary – she thinks that, too. That is what makes the game interesting.

And interesting it is. She has never had to focus on the game like that before, to strain her strategic and tactical thinking skills so much. But the greater the challenge, the sweeter the victory.

Mon Mothma moves a figure on the second level of the hexagonal board. “Diplomat takes general,” she says playfully, celebrating the small victory, but looking into Tarkin’s eyes over the chessboard. It is not a simple comment to the game, but a blatant flirt.

Tarkin seems unmoved, but there is a flash to his eyes, unnoticeable to anyone but her. He regards the board carefully and moves one of his own figures. “General takes diplomat,” he replies calmly, with a small smile.

“Bold move, governor.”

“Not more than yours, senator.”

They keep playing, paying little attention to others. But it would be difficult not to notice a small group of other people that gathers beside the holotable after half an hour. After an hour, half the cantina patrons are flocking around them, because few people can boast they lasted that long in holochess against Tarkin. After an hour and a half, everyone is focused on their match, and some, encouraged by Garm on one side and by Shayla on the other, are making bets. Fifteen minutes later, when Tarkin finally wins, not distracted by Mon Mothma’s subtle diversionary tactics, they are both rewarded with thunderous applause.

Shayla is beaming. “You made Eriadu proud, cousin,” she squeezes his shoulder. “And earned me a nice pile of credits.”

Wilhuff glances at her, eyebrows raised. “Drinks are on you,” he replies, his face impassive, but when Shayla laughs, he gives up and smiles briefly.

“Fine, fine.” Shayla turns to Mon Mothma. “You know, you should do that again sometime. You’ve just accomplished something no one has managed to, so far.”

“I guess so,” Mon Mothma answers with a smile, but she does not mean chess.

Tarkin catches her gaze and snorts in amusement, and Mon Mothma’s smile widens. So it seems no one has ever managed to do what she has, indeed. She makes a mental note to ask Tarkin about it sometime, should their affair continue. And if not... Well, she will have no regrets either way.

. . .

They are sitting in his office, two cups of steaming caf in their hands, and a single sheet of paper on the low table between them. It is a tradition on some planets that every agreement has to be signed on a physical, paper copy, and some even use traditional ink, not a pen, like they did.

“So, it’s done.” A corner of Tarkin’s mouth crooks up. “A pity, really. It would be easier to arrange a meeting concerning a trade agreement than a game of holochess.” Unfortunately, he is right. Under the guise of diplomatic relations, it is possible to meet as often as both sides want.

Mon Mothma glances down at the sheet of paper. It is not binding – the electronic version of the treaty is – but the treaty is not valid without it, all the same. It would give them a perfect excuse, really. All she has to is one small move...

She looks up at Tarkin, smiling boldly, then leans forward and tips her cup, and the hot caf splatters all over the paper. “Oh, it seems we’ll have to print and sign another copy,” she says, feigning innocence, though there is nothing innocent about the look in her eyes. “Because I’ve just spilled caf on the old one. How clumsy of me.”

Tarkin stares at her for a moment, and then – to her surprise – laughs. “I admire you subtlety, senator,” he teases.

She shrugs. “What’s the point? Isn’t directness better?”

He smiles. “I am glad you think so,” he says, before getting up and pulling her to him. the cup falls to the floor, almost soundlessly hitting the rug.

They do not have much time – she cannot stay here for long without arousing suspicions. So they decide not to waste that time. She smiles at him seductively, he pulls her flush against him, and they kiss frantically.

“Desk?” Tarkin suggests, a little out of breath.

She nods, and he lifts her up, and then she winds her arms around his shoulders as he tries to get her skirts out of the way, but her kisses prove too distracting. There comes a reflection that probably she is not the first woman he has been here with, but it matters little. This is just an affair, and she is here now, so why bother?

Before she leaves, he takes her hand and kisses her palm in a gesture that could be formal and within the bounds of etiquette if his lips did not linger.

“It’s been a pleasure, senator,” he says, a half-smile on his lips.

Mon Mothma laughs. “You truly do have a ways with words, governor,” she compliments.

“Do I?” Tarkin smiles briefly. “So what would you say to another match of holochess tomorrow? And... Well, I’m a busy man, and surely I could be forgiven if I forget to bring another copy of our agreement tomorrow and we’ll have to sign it a day later?”

She runs a hand up his chest. “So impatient...” she teases. “I’d love to, but there’s a very dull concert the Bothan ambassador invited me for ages ago.” There is no way she can decline the invitation politely now, even if she agrees with the popular opinion that what the Bothans listen to has never even been close to music.

“I’m returning to Eriadu in three days,” he explains matter-of-factly, though she hopes that what she can see in his eyes is disappointment.

“Any plans for the morning after tomorrow, governor?” she asks.

“Not yet...” But his voice suggests that he can easily make plans, if she has something interesting in mind.

“I thought we could play holochess in my office.”

His eyebrows rise. “Is that an honest question or a very direct flirt?”

“I meant exactly what I said.” She laughs. “I have a nice chess set that I haven’t used since I got it, because finding a worthy opponent is somehow difficult.” She goes on her tiptoes and lightly brushes her lips across his cheek. “But you can take it as a flirt if you want to.”

“You are refreshingly... direct about certain things, senator.” Tarkin smiles, amused. “I’ll take it as an invitation, then.”

“In that case, you should bring wine.” She reluctantly steps back.

“It would be somehow suspicious, wouldn’t it?” He kisses her hand again, but this time there is nothing formal about it. “I look forward out next meeting, senator.”

“As do I, governor. As do I.”

. . .

He brings caf, one of the more expensive blends – she can never remember the name, but whatever it is, it goes well with the exotic, membrosia-based sweets she chose. Since she does not know what he prefers, she picked something she likes. That, and she is certain that he must have heard the popular – if utterly nonsensical – rumour that membrosia is an aphrodisiac, and he will read her choice as a flirt it is.

They play holochess, talk – of politics, of course - and sip coffee. Almost as if it was a date, Mon Mothma realises, and has to suppress a giggle.

“I am glad you find your defeat so amusing, senator,” Tarkin says with a smug smile. Of course, he is winning yet another game.

“I am glad you find my amusement so pleasing,” she replies without missing a beat.

He lightly shakes his head. “You’re incorrigible...”

Deciding she has had enough chess, she gets up, gathers her skirts and moves to sit on his lap, her thighs on both sides of his waist. “That’s what you find so appealing in me, governor.” She loosely wraps her arms around his neck and smiles at him, her eyebrows arching. “Admit it.”

“I do,” he agrees, with a brief smile. His hands move up her legs to her hips and then her waist. “Among other things.”

“Such honesty in a politician,” she breaths, her lips brushing his ear. “Strangely appealing.”

“I’m more of a military man at heart,” he replies. “Isn’t that a good moment to move to somewhere more comfortable, while we still can?”

“A bold tactical move,” she praises. “But sadly, it’s not a good moment. I have to leave in about five minutes.” She offers an apologetic smile, though she is not sorry in the least. Tarkin responded remarkably well to her flirts the other day, and that gave her an idea. “An important diplomatic meeting with the Corellian ambassador.” Which basically means that she called Garm last evening and asked him if he could think of any issues they might have to discuss, because she simply had to have a plausible reason to be out of her office for the next afternoon, and Garm agreed, without asking questions

Tarkin pulls away, looking at her closely. “You did it on purpose.”

Mon Mothma grins. “Of course.” She leans in to brush her lips across his neck, just below his ear, and she can hear the slight hitch in his breath. “Careful planning, strategy...” she breaks of when Tarkin kisses her, his hand in her hair, and she kisses him back in a similar manner, impatient, insistent.

When they finally part, they are both gasping for air. “How much time left?” he asks, somehow managing to sound matter-of-factly.

“Two minutes.” She nips the tip of his ear. “And about forty seconds.”

He smirks. “Well, let’s make the most of it, shall we?” he asks in a whisper, watching her reactions – he is clearly aware of how, ah, persuasive his voice can be – before kissing her again.

There really is no time for more than a few passionate kisses and frantic touches, and then she has to leave. For the rest of the day, she cannot really focus on anything, as all she can think about is her bed, Tarkin’s desk, and creative use of other furniture. But she is pretty certain that Tarkin cannot stop thinking about her, either.


	6. Chapter 6

When the week is over, it seems to have passed more quickly than it should. Mon Mothma laughs at herself. Of course it has. She was too preoccupied with Tarkin, really, like a... She laughs again. She might be professional as a senator, but she is still a young woman, and seducing – if it can be called that – a man like Tarkin thrills hers.

They do keep in touch – they play chess over the holo, and talk – mainly politics – but they do not flirt. Tarkin gives no indication that what has happened between them was more than a fling, not even an affair, and even though she is usually direct to the point of being brazen, she has her limits. That is, her pride has. She will not impose herself on a man who is not interested.

Besides, it is still her triumph, and she allows herself to cherish the victory. Perhaps she is just not interesting enough to capture Tarkin’s attention for long. Which, if true, would be a blow to her pride, but she could live with that. After all, Tarkin does not lack pride, either. Whatever happens, she has no regrets.

Going back to the usual routine – work, evenings with her friends at _Hyperspace_ or at her apartment with a book – gives her some time to think things over. To think what that relationship could give her, to wonder what she wants... To think of a reason why she is so taken with the Eriaduan governor.

Wilhuff Tarkin is not classically handsome, but he does not have to be. Yes, men who have wealth and power rarely have to, but with his charisma, he would not need even that. At least Mon Mothma thinks so. Again, she wants to laugh. For an attraction based on intellect and charisma, they have certainly been very physical about it.

Then again, despite what people might say, she is convinced that when it comes to relationships and their physical aspect, there is one most important organ: namely, brain. Since her last romantic relationship – if it could be called that, really – she has had a couple of short-lived affairs. She always chose men she found handsome, and whose company she liked, and it has always been nice. But it has never been like with Tarkin, not that thrilling. Never.

She remembers those affairs fondly, but never before has she thought so often about any man. And it is simple, really. Charisma, and pure chemistry, too, of course, those are the obvious answers. And... she finds Tarkin intriguing. Dealing with him is not unlike playing holochess. Brain, she thinks, amused. Now, intellect is definitely Wilhuff Tarkin’s most attractive feature.

. . .

When governor Tarkin returns to Coruscant – rumour has it that it is at the Chancellor’s invitation, not surprising, since it is common knowledge that Palpatine is interested in Tarkin’s career – she does not call him, does not suggest that he should visit her, or even that they could meet at _Hyperspace_ for a game of chess. No, if Tarkin wants to see her, it is time he put some effort into it, even as small as making a holocall.

He does not call her directly, but her aide informs her that the governor of Eriadu asked for a meeting, and that his visit is scheduled for the next afternoon. Mon Mothma politely thanks her aide for help, as she always does, and only when she is alone in her office she allows herself a brief, triumphant smile. Since the second paper copy of the trade agreement was signed during Tarkin’s last stay on Coruscant, there is no reason for him to pay her a visit. No official reason, at least.

 _Check, governor_.

Still, she is not going to suggest anything if he will not make the first step. But, just in case, she puts new, shadowsilk sheets on her bed in the evening.

. . .

There are no important official visits on the next day, so she dresses semi-formally – a simple gown in the usual shades of white, form-fitting from the waist up, and with a soft, flowing skirt. It was designed mostly for comfort, but it is also more flattering than her official robes.

She thanks her aide and lets the girl have an afternoon off. She prepares stimcaf, and then tries to read, listening to the steady hum of the caf maker, but cannot focus on the book. With a quiet huff of irritation, she puts it aside and moves over to the holochess table.

She has barely managed to begin a game when the door bell chimes. When she opens, Tarkin welcomes her with a brief, polite smile and a respectful bow of his head.

“Senator,” he says in greeting.

“Governor.” She nods to him, and with a gesture of her hand invites him to come in. “I must say I was a little surprised.”

“By my visit?” Another brief, polite smile. “You see, it is customary that we celebrate each trade agreement with a small gift.” He reaches out, offering her what looks like a rock or perhaps ore of some kind, set in glass, laid on a metal plate no bigger than her palm. “Lommite,” Tarkin explains.

“Thank you,” Mon Mothma says, accepting the gift. “But I hope you do not expect to receive a similar token in return, governor,” she adds with a smile. “I’m afraid the fruit of a starblossom would not last long in glass. Not to mention the smell would be quite foul after a few weeks.”

Tarkin snorts quietly, amused. “No, senator, nothing is required in return. As I said, it’s just a customary gift.”

“Please, sit. I’ll bring stimcaf.” She moves over to the caf table and pours the hot drink.

She can feel his eyes on her, following her moves. When she turns and walks over to the caf table, Tarkin is watching her. She is used to men staring at her whenever she puts on something else than her official robes, but Tarkin is more subtle about it. And it seems he likes what he sees.

“Admiring my gown, governor?” she teases, handing him a cup.

Tarkin smiles briefly. “You could say that.”

He thanks her for the caf, and for a while they chat idly. Tarkin asks about news from Coruscant – news, not gossip, and she is happy to fill him in. There is not much to tell, but the Senate has finally began discussing some reasonable solutions to the Trade Federation problem, and when he asks about her opinion, she gladly shares it. Just as before, he gives her his full attention, and she smiles at him briefly, to show how much she appreciates it.

“Perhaps we could play holochess, if you are not terribly busy?” Tarkin asks at some point, looking at her face. “That is, if you do not have some important diplomatic meeting scheduled for today.” A corner of his mouth lifts up in a smirk.

“No, nothing of the sort.” Mon Mothma laughs merrily. “But, to think of it... I could have an important diplomatic meeting with the governor of Eriadu,” she says, looking at him expectantly. He has to make a more definite move before she would flirt with him more boldly.

“The governor of Eriadu would be much obliged if you did,” Tarkin says, taking her hand in his gently, then lifting it to his lips. He presses a soft kiss to her skin, all the while looking into her eyes.

Mon Mothma feels as if the temperature in the room rose a few degrees. She smiles at him defiantly. “Well, well... I could almost think you missed me, governor.”

“Certainly not your taunts, senator,” he replies without missing a beat. With a smile, he gets up and takes a step towards her. “Let me put it this way... There is no shortage of intelligent women in the galaxy,” he says. “However, a brilliant woman is difficult to come by.”

“Ah, really, governor...” She shakes her head, laughing quietly. “Trying to seduce me?”

“I would think I don’t have to do that anymore,” he answers with a knowing smile.

“You are very self-confident, governor.”

“Some prefer to call it pride, my dear,” Tarkin corrects, and she does not chastise him for his slightly patronising tone only because it is apparent that he is jesting. “Well, since I’d hate to lie if anyone asks about this afternoon, and anyone would believe we talked economy for hours... How is the Greenhouse Project going on, senator?”

“Very well, thank you.” Mon Mothma grins, getting up, too. “And how are Eriadu’s profits from the lommite trade?”

“Excellent, thank you. And now, I believe, we can move on to, ah, diplomacy...”

When he leans in, she parts her lips, welcoming his kiss, then kissing him back – perhaps a bit too eagerly, but she has not realised how much she has missed this until now, with his mouth on hers and his hands on her hips, and her fingers in his hair.

“Bed?” he asks, and the corner of his lips curls up. “Desk?” He glances around the room. “Sofa?”

She should scold him for being so direct and for abandoning all pretence, she really should. But she cannot really do that, after having been so direct herself earlier.

“Governor, still so ungentlemanly...” She laughs. “But yes, bed sounds like a good idea. Especially considering that I have new sheets. Shadowsilk.”

“Shadowsilk? Isn’t that a little...” He breaks off, words disappearing in a sharp intake of breath as she nips at his neck, just below his ear.

“What, overdone?” She pulls away to look at him, and smiles in satisfaction at seeing his dishevelled hair and the hunger in his eyes. He can win in holochess all he wants, as long as she gets to see him like this, because this is her little victory. Ah, and he is definitely a trophy she will treasure. “Surely not. It’s just me planning.”

He snorts, amused. “So perhaps you could tell me what’s the next step in your plan?”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps I could show you. In bed.” She does her best seductive smile. “If you want to...” As if it was not apparent, she muses. But still, she wants him to voice it.

He moves his hand up her neck and into her hair, pulling her in for a brief kiss. His eyes are ablaze. “Very much so, senator,” he whispers in a voice that makes her shiver. “Very much so.”

. . .

She is lying on stomach, her resting on her crosses hands. Tarkin is watching her, his fingers brushing up and down her spine languidly. Finally he leans over and kisses her shoulder. Moves a little to the side and his lips touch her skin again, and again, as he trails soft kisses across her back. For a moment, she sinks deeper into the pillows, enjoying the sensation. Then she turns, her fingers tangling into his hair as she pulls him close for a kiss. Just a light brush of lips at first, but then they shift and he leans in for a second kiss, deep, but unhurried.

His hand moves down her side and settles on her hip. “How about we take it slow, for a change?” he asks in a husky whisper.

She looks into his eyes. “Just how slow are we talking about, governor?”

“Wilhuff,” he corrects quietly. “Depends on how patient you are...” He drags his lips down her neck.

“Not very much,” she says with a somehow breathless laugh. “But I’m willing to give it a try...” She sighs when he kisses the hollow of her throat, tongue tasting skin, then pulls him up to look into his eyes. There is exhilaration and power in seeing how much he wants her, how much she affects him. “So the question is...” She has both hands in his hair now, and her lips almost brush against his with every word. “How patient are you?” she whispers.

He kisses her passionately, without any patience at all. “Not very much. But I’m willing to try.”

It turns out they are both more patient that they have given themselves credit for. But when Tarkin – Wilhuff – whispers her name against her throat – more of a hot breath and vibration against skin than an actual sound – she decides that she has had enough patience for one evening. She curls her fingers in his hair and tugs up lightly, until he raises his head and looks at her. There is real power in this, Mon Mothma thinks in her last coherent thought, in knowing she is what makes him look at her with such intensity, eyes aflame with desire. And then Tarkin – Wilhuff, she corrects herself, Wilhuff, she repeats aloud, in a somehow breathless voice, tasting his name on her lips for the first time – kisses her deeply, slaking the thirst that she can see in his gaze and feel in every cell of her own body, and she stops thinking.


	7. Chapter 7

After that night, they keep meeting for holochess and for heated political discussions – and other heated things, but they leave it out of the official version. And, when he leaves for Eriadu again, but from then on, they flirt over the holo sometimes – and, astonishingly, he starts it. And, when before his next visit on Coruscant, he suggests that they should meet, it becomes apparent that they have moved on to being lovers.

When they start regularly meeting at _Hyperspace_ to play chess, no one is surprised. Even better – every time they are something of a main attraction of the evening, and other senators usually make bets on who will win. Eight times out of ten, it is Tarkin.

Sometimes, they do not play, just sit at a table and talk politics – or, more accurately, argue about it. This does not draw anyone’s attention – just two people who like their work too much, what can possibly be interesting about that? And thus, slowly, Coruscant is becoming used to seeing them together, on more friendly terms, but always professional. If they were anyone else, the rumours would have gone wild by now. But when everyone can see clearly what their shared interests are, there are no rumours. Chess are much less exciting than dejarik, and do they not have enough politics in their everyday life already to talk about some theoretical concepts? Going out in the evenings is supposed to be relax, not talking about nothing but work.

Mon Mothma can understand this – she likes to have fun, too. She just guesses her idea of fun is slightly different. Dejarik is fine, but holochess is a much more demanding game. And talking about politics, fiercely defending one’s opinion, can be very appealing.

Sometimes, though rarely, she meets with Wilhuff at cultural events. They have attended the same show at the Galactic Opera once, and have met at a concert or two by accident. Wilhuff does not care much for theatre, but he has some appreciation for classical music.

She knows he used to dabble in science and philosophy, but as the governor he has too many practical, everyday matters to attend to, and simply has no time for his old interests. But that is common knowledge, as many of his essays are available in the Holonet databanks.

What few people know is that he harbours a certain interest in art. Wilhuff has peculiar admiration for nature, and the only kind of art he is somehow fond of are landscapes and spacescapes. Supernovas, storms, volcanic eruptions, great waterfalls, raging waves – all depictions of nature’s destructive but awe-inspiring phenomena. It must, she concludes, resound with all the energy boiling inside him.

Sometimes – more and more often – they meet in her or his office. To play chess and to talk – again, if it was about anyone else, people would have started some rumours already. But since everyone knows what she and Tarkin are interested in, there are no rumours. Perhaps it is because their careers seem more exciting than their private lives.

When their meetings become more frequent – during his fifth or sixth visit to Coruscant since their first meeting, she thinks – they start working together. That is, she visits him in his office, or he visits her, and each works on their own business, sometimes just exchanging opinions and political anecdotes. It makes work more interesting, more pleasant, and the customary caf breaks often turn into more.

Sometimes, they start with a talk, and sometimes talking is the only thing they do. But often they go straight to her bedroom – or, more rarely, his. Then, after a short nap, they talk, still in bed, political discussions mixed with kisses and lazy caresses. And Wilhuff is always focused on what she says, always interested in her opinions and their verbal sparring. Almost as if he has never had a lover who shared his interests on a level he would find satisfying. And he is different than other men she has been with, too.

Wilhuff Tarkin is not a man of many words. But in private, he talks a bit more, and there is much, much more going on in his mind that he lets out. But the more time they spend together, the more she notices, the more she learns about him.

Unlike some, he never speaks when he has nothing to say. But when he says something, it is usually worth listening to. He makes a good enough politician, but with his brilliant tactical mind he is much better suited to a military career.

He is calm, at least on the outside, and has extraordinary self-control, but he is no less fierce than she is. Sometimes it is possible to catch a glimpse of his inner fire – a swift move, an abrupt turn of the head – as if he could not quite contain all that energy.

That is the only difference – she lets her fire show plainly, making passionate speeches and never shying away from expressing her opinion. He always speaks his mind, too, when he wants. They are, in some aspects, quite similar. The biggest difference is in their political views, but that always provides interesting topics for lively conversation... And the more heated the discussion, the more exciting the aftermath.

If Mon Mothma were to define that relationship, she would not be able to do so. Fortunately, she does not have to. Tarkin is a challenge, an adventure, not quite safe – ah, he would be a formidable enemy were they ever to be on opposing sides – but quite exhilarating. To think of it, Tarkin is the kind of man she would warn her daughter about, had she a daughter. But she is young, afraid of nothing, she wants to enjoy life, and Wilhuff Tarkin is quite an enjoyable affair.

It thrills her like nothing else ever has to see his control snap and shatter, to see passion replace the usually so guarded expression on his face. Sometimes, when their breaths, still heavy and erratic, ale slowing down to the normal rate, and he kisses her deeply, she thinks that together, they could take on the entire galaxy. She laughs at those fantasies later, of course, because they would never reach an agreement on most things, but still, she does not forsake them altogether. He has charisma and ambition, and greatness ahead of him, she is certain – men like him change the history of planets, whole sectors, sometimes even the galaxy itself – and it is exhilarating to know that she has some kind of power over him. Naturally, he has some power over her, too. But neither of them use it for anything else than to tease the other.

Wilhuff is usually quiet, much less vocal that her previous lovers. It makes every gasp, moan and sigh her little victory, it makes her notice and enjoy every tiniest change in his breath and the quickening of his pulse when her lips brush across his neck. And when she hears him utter her name for the first time, it delights her as nothing ever has.

There are no sweet words, though he can pay her a compliment or two once in a while. There is also very little to no tenderness about him. But she does not mind – he is never inconsiderate, he knows when to be gentle and when to be bold, he can be sensual, and that energy that she can sense burning inside him can easily turn into passion if he is in the mood for it. And she enjoys all the time they spend in bed – or with other furniture involved – as much as she enjoys their discussions.

There is also his smile – not his official smile, polite but cold, nor his usual smug one – but the satisfied smile of someone who has just faced a difficult but very rewarding challenge. And if that is how he perceives her, she thinks with a smirk, she does not mind.

. . .

The first time she wins in chess against Wilhuff, Garm, her most loyal supporter, gives out a loud cry of joy. He keeps grinning for the whole evening, collecting credits from his fellow senators. Bail and Shayla congratulate her, too.

Wilhuff is more reserved, but his approving smile is much more gratifying than her friends’ enthusiasm. “I am impressed, senator,” he says quietly. Then he gets up and offers her a shallow bow, and Mon Mothma has to suppress the urge to giggle.

But somehow, she manages to keep her face straight... even when she notices a whole new level of interest in Wilhuff’s eyes. It seems he finds ambition and intellect as appealing as she does. Well, good for her.

“You know, I’m glad you’re arguing about politics,” Garm mentions over a glass of the most expensive wine available in _Hyperspace_ , about half an hour after Tarkin left. “Because if you ever started making politics together, the galaxy would tremble.”

She laughs, amused by the vision. “Am I really that terrifying?”

“You?”Bail smiles at her. “Not really. Tarkin can be, a little.”

Garm grins. “Afraid of him, Organa?”

“You’d be, too, if you had better grasp of politics,” Bail teases back, and they laugh.

Mon Mothma laugh with them, too. But some small part of her cannot help being a little thrilled at the thought how would it be to have so much power and to share it with Wilhuff. She entertains the thought for just a moment, and lets go. Power is very appealing – she is aware that perhaps it is too appealing for her – and that is why she would never reach for it.

. . .

She walks up to the desk, stops behind Wilhuff’s chair and puts her hands on his shoulders, kneading. He is always tense, like a bow ready to shoot or a nexu ready to jump.

It took a few trials and errors, but after a while she learned his moods. She knows that when a small crease of concentration appears between eyebrows, it is best not to disturb him, because he is working on something important or urgent. He barely sees anything but work at those times, only making small breaks to drink another cup of stimcaf. But when his face is more relaxed, and he reaches for the cup every now and then while working, she knows she can interrupt, like she is doing now.

Wilhuff leans his head against her with a quiet hum of contentment.

Even now, the second year into their acquaintance, it sometimes catches her by surprise how easily she has become used to him being a part of her routine. Every month or two he returns to Coruscant, and for a couple of days, they meet every afternoon or evening. And when he is away on Eriadu, they often talk via the holo. Usually she leaves him a short message about date and hour, and if he has time to talk, he calls her.

Sometimes, Mon Mothma feels it is perhaps like cheating, because they do not have any everyday problems to face. They only have all the best things of a relationship – shared interests, excitement, understanding. No little nuisances like – well, perhaps he snores when he sleeps – or like her being insufferable for the first half an hour in the morning, when she is barely lucid and very grumpy because she has to get out of a comfortable and warm bed.

She smiles at her thoughts and lets her hands slide down Wilhuff’s chest.

“Work,” he protests, half-heartedly.

When they meet there is never enough time, and for her, there is never enough of good time in bed with a man she is interested in, especially if there is plenty of topics she can discuss with him afterwards. And Wilhuff is just as interesting as he was at the beginning. Judging by his reactions, he still finds her just as interesting as he did, too.

“You’ll have plenty of time for that back on Eriadu.” She takes the datapad from his hand and skims through the text. “Taxes? Really?” She pulls away and turns the chair to look at him. “Wilhuff Tarkin, don’t you dare say that you find taxes more interesting than me.”

He smiles, amused. His hands find her hips and he pulls her onto his lap. “No sane man would ever tell something like that to a woman.”  

. . .

“I’ve watched your last speech,” Wilhuff says, lazily brushing his fingers back and forth across her skin.

“Hey, that tickles.” She tries to bat his hand away, and then they compromise: he stops moving his hand and simply rests his palm on her hip, and she slides her fingers over his. “So, my speech. What with it?”

“Impressive, as always. One can’t help but admire you passion.”

She smiles seductively. “You should, ah, admire my passion more often.”

He shakes his head, but she glimpses a brief smile crossing his lips. “I’m talking about politics, Reila, and only that.” He moves his hand, tickling her again, and she squirms.

“Wilhuff!” Before she can find an adequately elegant and diplomatic expletive, he kisses her. It is really difficult to still be annoyed at him when he resolves to kissing. Especially when they are in bed. “Now, governor, that’s cheating.”

“Diversionary tactics,” he replies smugly.

She sighs, takes a pillow and puts it on his shoulder, and settles more comfortably against him. “So, politics... You were going to ask why I keep fighting to cure the system that doesn’t seem to be working?”

“Oh, it is working. Just not for everyone. The Core Words are the Senate’s main interest, that hasn’t changes for centuries.”

“I still believe it could work if more people actually put some effort into it.”

He smiles briefly. “Yes, if everyone was as dedicated as you, the Republic would definitely be better-organised.”

She laughs at him. “Still true to your vision of the Republic of law and order, I see?” she teases.

“The Republic has law and order. The problem is that it’s not able to deal with those who don’t respect its laws quickly enough.”

“And what would you have instead, mhm? Military autocracy?”

“Something like what we have on Eriadu. One person, more responsibility, swift decisions. Though perhaps it might not work as well on a galactic scale. Though giving the Chancellor more power would solve some problems, I guess. With the Senate keeping an eye on our esteemed leader.”

She smiles. “Now, that definitely isn’t your dream vision.”

They have two phases of talking about politics. Out of bed, they argue fiercely over everything they do not agree on. And among the sheets they tease each other about their differences.

“I’m a realist, my dear. And what I mentioned would be a start, wouldn’t it? And when everyone would see that it works, they’d be more willing to agree to next changes. Step by step.”

“And what then?” She laughs. “Supreme Leader Tarkin?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t aim that high.” He glances at her. “It gives me an idea, though. You’d make an excellent Chancellor.”

“That’s a challenge I’d welcome. But, sadly, I’m not popular enough. Besides, now that Palpatine started actually trying to do something, he might be your number one candidate. Especially considering your opinions are more similar than ours. And let’s not forget your long-standing acquaintance.”

“You know what people say. The Outer-Rim upstarts keeping together and so on.” He shrugs; she has heard such opinions before, and knows they do not bother him. “It never hurts to know the right kind of ambitious people. Or those in power.”

“True, governor. True.”

He looks down at her, amused. “Why do you keep calling me by my official title in bed?”

“Why do you never correct me?” She smirks, because she knows the answer.

“Because, my dear senator, I find power very appealing.” He smiles at her knowingly. “As do you.”

She pushes him down onto the sheets, laughing. “So let’s talk about that appeal, governor.”


	8. Chapter 8

They talk about everything – politics, their planets, the current painting exhibition at the Galactic Art Museum, the new, fascinating historical holonovel about the Mandalorian Wars – anything, except for their families. It is just a topic they do not feel the need to talk about – she can see how he gets on with Shayla, he sometimes sends short holomessages to his brother Gideon, and of course everyone has heard of his cousin, Ranulph, who preceded Shayla as the senator of Seswenna. And Mon Mothma has answered calls from her parents while working with Wilhuff more than once. Families are just a part of their lives that they acknowledge, but that is something to talk about during vacation, back home, and not on Coruscant, which is a planet good for business, but very few senators try family life here.

So when her sister, Kaila, calls her, Mon Mothma answers, and Wilhuff just nods at her and reaches for a holobook, ready to wait patiently until the end of conversation.

“Kaila, if this isn’t something important, I’ll call you back, all right? I’m in a meeting with governor Tarkin from Eriadu and...”

“Good grief, Reila, why can’t you just send me your schedule, so that I can stop calling you during your working hours?” Kaila rolls her eyes, which retain their natural shade of blue despite the light the holo cast over her image. “It’s a pleasure meeting you, governor,” she adds in a nondescript direction, somehow sourly.

“Charmed,” answers Wilhuff dryly, glancing up from his holobook, loud enough for the holo device to transmit it.

Mon Mothma giggles. “One day I’ll make proper introductions and all,” she promises. “So?” she asks, looking at her older sister expectantly.

“Nothing important. Just wanted to talk, that’s all, but I can wait a few hours. I hope the governor of Eriadu will forgive me this brief interruption in whatever you’re working on.”

“The governor of Eriadu feels very generous today, so he might,” Wilhuff mouths, too quietly for Kaila to hear, but Mon Mothma catches every word and has to stifle laughter.

“Call me back in the evening.” Kaila winks at her. “And don’t work the whole night,” with that, she disconnects.

“Has she just said what I think she has?” Wilhuff glances up at her, arching an eyebrow.

Mon Mothma smiles at him merrily. “Let’s just say she knows that...”

“You’re a terrible flirt?”

Her smile turns proud. “I managed to seduce you, governor. I’d call myself skilled, if anything.”

“You can’t seduce the willing, my dear,” he corrects in that slightly patronising tone he sometimes uses in jest, then sighs when his holo beeps quietly, but decides to answer. “Yes, Shayla?”

The image of Shayla’s face, hovering over the device on Wilhuff’s wrist, is radiating good will and optimism, as usually.

“Just wanted to give you a quick update on how things are back home, cousin.” Shayla smiles widely. “Thalassa mentioned that the move will be over soon, and most of your things are already in the Governor’s Palace.”

“Finally.” Wilhuff nods. “Good. We’ll talk more when you’re back on Coruscant. When will that be?”

“In a week, at most. I wouldn’t miss your speech in the Senate. Right, I’ll let you work now.” Shayla smiles again, waves at him merrily and then her image disappears as she turn her holo off.

Mon Mothma watches Wilhuff, eyebrows arched. “Who is Thalassa?” she asks. The answer, though, seems pretty obvious – the move, his things, really, how much clearer could it be? – and she does not like it in the least.

“She’s my wife.” He seems unmoved.

“Wait, what?” Mon Mothma is dumbfounded. Utilising every little self-control trick she has learned as a politician, she somehow manages to keep a straight face. “You’re married?” She crosses her hands over her chest as shock gives way to irritation and rage. A few steps, and she leans against her desk, looking at Wilhuff somehow coldly. “And you’ve never thought to, I don’t know, mention it to me, perhaps?” It comes as a surprise that she is more upset that he did not tell her than by the fact he is a married man. And, though she does not want to admit it, by how much it hurts her pride to think that there is another woman who might have captured Wilhuff’s attention and interest.

“What for?” It seems he really does not see what the whole problem is. “How is my wife any business of yours?”

Her brow furrows. “Because we’ve been kind of sleeping with each other for a few months now, and I wouldn’t do that if I knew...” she breaks off, because she is not sure if she would not have done that. Tarkin is the first man in years she is really interested in. Would she give it up just like that?

Wilhuff watches her face closely. He can probably guess what she is thinking.

“We married for politics, not love,” he explains calmly, putting the book away and getting up. “Though I guess she loves the prestige of my family name added to hers.”

She eyes him critically. “Mhm. And that’s it?”

“What else am I supposed to say?” He shrugs. “If I considered it a real marriage, not just a political union, I wouldn’t have sought another woman. Simple as that.” That, at least, seems true. She knows that Wilhuff is constant both in his opinions and his loyalties.

What else should he say, she wonders. Well, it is clear that if he loved his wife, he would not seek another woman. As if his wife cared about him, she would surely at least call from time to time. Mon Mothma can recall countless times when Tarkin answered one or another holocall while he was with her, and none of them was from his wife. She cringes inwardly, scolding herself for making excuses for him. Well, it is not like he has ever called his wife either, though even he probably would not do that in Mon Mothma’s presence.

She never considered herself a paragon, but it takes a great deal of effort to admit that she does not want to end their relationship. But she is not going to just tell him that what he said is enough, not just yet. No, she will make him work for it a little harder. His admission hurt her pride, and she will not give in unless he says something that will alleviate the pain.

“For instance, you could explain why you’re here. Why me? Your wife isn’t pretty enough?” she asks in an attempt at joking – or perhaps mockery, she is not sure.

“She is pretty,” Wilhuff answers, unruffled. “But beauty isn’t enough. I need a woman whose ambition can rival my own.” A corner of his mouth curls up. “Dedicated to what she does, not afraid to speak her opinion, and with a brilliant mind,” he continues, walking up to her.

“And that is me?” Mon Mothma arches her eyebrows.

He puts his hands on her hips and pulls her close. “Why else would I be here?”

She stops him, pressing her palms flat against his chest. “No so fast. I need to know...”

“No, you don’t. Not really.” He is looking at her with a smug smile on his lips. “Don’t lie to yourself, Reila. If it really bothered you that I am married, you would have thrown me out of your rooms the moment I mentioned my wife. You haven’t. I think, senator, that you are tired of always thinking of others and want to be selfish for once.”

She meets his stare. “You obviously don’t care. So why not just divorce her?”

“Family obligations... Think of it as an economic treaty between our houses. I will not break it.” He pauses. “You didn’t reply,” he says quietly, leaning closer to whisper into ear. “I will go if you want me to.”

She should throw him out, she really should, and never meet him again. At least not until she confirmed the story with his marriage being pure politics and all. But if he loved his wife, he would not be there. And as his husky voice trickles down her spine in a shiver, she thinks that yes, for once she wants to be selfish. As a senator, she always has to mind all the details, consequences, thousands of nameless people’s fates. She likes her work, she really does. But right now, she finds that she does not care for that unknown woman somewhere on an Outer Rim planet. Wilhuff Tarkin is exactly the kind of man she wants, and she is not going to give him up. Because she never gives up something she really wants.

She runs her hands up his chest and neck, her fingers curling into his hair. “You certainly are very persuasive, governor.”

His face is calm, except for that familiar smug smile, but that close she can see that his pupils are dilated, and the look in his eyes is something between hunger and fire.

He leans in, his lips almost brushing hers. “I can be more persuasive, senator,” he promises in a low voice.

“Good.” She smiles up at him impishly. “Because, mind you, I’m not persuaded easily.”

. . .

Next morning, she is not longer so certain. She does not care for other people’s opinions about her... But her family does. As do her friends.

She would laugh at herself, because this is clearly a moral hangover. She should not have let him explain himself so easily, she should have at least waited a bit. She definitely should not have let their talk move to her bedroom.

She wonders if what she is doing counts as cheating when it comes to Shayla – poor, gullible Shayla, too kind-hearted for her own good. She wonders if she is lying to her friends – Garm might let it pass, but Bail would certainly never approve of her having an affair with a married man. Not to mention what her parents would say. And her sister.

She wonders what would happen if anyone knew. Would people call her Tarkin’s mistress? Ah, that would be one of the more courteous names, she is certain. Are her freedom and her desires worth sacrificing her reputation?

But there is a quiet, nagging voice in her mind that deep in her heart she really does not care. Every day, she does her best to represent her planet well, to take care of her people, to do what is best for the galaxy. She is by no means unhappy – her life is comfortable, but not without challenges, and she likes it that way. But for the first time she truly wants something – someone – Wilhuff.

But does she really have him? If nothing else, her pride would not bear being the other woman, the one he would return to his wife from. No, if she is to be with someone, she has to be the only one. Not necessarily the only one there is, but the only one that truly matters. She has to know that, she needs to know that, she must know that for certain. But her pride will not let her ask him about it.

. . .

She did not expect he would visit her. Call in a few days, perhaps, yes, but not come to talk in person. But he does, just before his departure.

“Senator.” He does not enter, waiting for her invitation. “You missed our chess game.”

Mon Mothma looks at his face, trying to read something from his neutral expression. “I was thinking.” Finally, she steps aside, gesturing at him to come in.

“Having second thoughts?” he asks when the door close behind him.

She takes a breath. She does not want to argue, to make a scene, and even less – to make a fool of herself. A bigger fool than she already has, that is. “We need to talk, Wilhuff.”

He nods. “I thought as much,” he says, matter-of-factly.

“You didn’t tell me,” she tries not to make it a reproach, and hopes that she does not fail entirely.

“You never asked.” His eyes focus on hers. “It was irrelevant to you, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. No!” She wishes she had a better grip on herself, but she has been sleeping poorly for the last few days, and she is tired. “So it doesn’t count as dishonesty because I’ve never asked?” She shakes her head. “What happens on Eriadu stays on Eriadu, is that it?”

“What do you want, Reila?”

Ah, she has been thinking hard about that lately.

“It’s not about that,” she answers, in a much calmer voice. “I don’t place any demands on you.” She shrugs. “Why should I?” Why, indeed? They have never discussed their status, and what they have is an unspoken agreement. Which basically means that neither has any right the other is not willing to grant. “I just want honesty, Wilhuff.”

He is watching her closely. “That’s not all, is it?”

She straightens, holding her head up higher. Having no demands does not mean she has no standards. There are some borders she will not cross. “I won’t be a plaything.” She might forget about his wife, but she will not be the other woman. Oh, he can sleep with whomever he wants, as long as she will be the one on his mind.

There is a small smile on his lips. “Always so proud.” But he quickly grows serious. “I don’t play, Reila,” he says quietly, looking into her eyes, his gaze scorching in its intensity.

There must be something about her expression, because a moment later Wilhuff steps closer, pulls her to him, his hands on her waist, and kisses her deeply. When they part, they are both panting. No, he does not play, she thinks. He does not believe in half measures.

“Desk?” he asks in a whisper. He is not being disrespectful, she knows, he is just indicating that he does not have much time.

She should push him away and scold him for being so blunt, for even asking about this after the talk they have just had, but she knows he would never ask if something in her face or eyes did not indicate that she would accept. Part of her, which wishes he would move his hands to her hips and kiss her again, wants to answer: ‘Anything’, but she promptly tells it to shut up. She is determined to have her brain do the thinking.

She puts her palms on his chest to put some distance between them. “Don’t you think it’s too fast?” she chides.

He is still watching her closely, gaze never leaving her face. “Answer one question, Reila. Do you want me to leave?”

Of course he will not ask about it again, his pride would never let him. But when he puts things this way... There is only one answer she can give.

“No,” she says finally. She does not protest when he kisses her again, her fingers curling into the material of his tunic. Still, she is reluctant to just give in. Or, more accurately, she is all too eager to do so, but her pride will never let her. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?” she asks at last.

“No.” Wilhuff is watching her closely, waiting for her decision. And he is certainly not making it easy for her. “But perhaps you are asking the wrong questions, and perhaps there are things I should.” He pauses. Sighs. “I have a son.”

“Ah.” She is not surprised, not really. Of course he would have to think of the future of his house, and make sure he has an heir. It is only logical. “All right, so are there any more questions I should be asking?”

He does not let go of her, but takes half a step back, leaving some more space between them. “Why don’t you come to Eriadu and see for yourself?” he says quietly after a while, looking into her eyes.

Now, she certainly was not expecting that. She just hopes he does not notice her astonishment. “Do you want me to?” she asks solemnly.

“If that is what you need to make a decision, then why not?” he replies, without hesitation. “And perhaps seeing the answers will be easier than looking for the right questions.” Then he smiles at her briefly. “I am not going to just let you go because of one unasked question, senator.”

She shakes her head at the way he puts it and at the fact that he would not even need to convince her. “Ever the diplomat, governor, aren’t you?” she asks quietly, not without humour.

“I can be blunt, if you wish.” He gives her a close look. “But I’m not sure if you’d like it.”

She sighs. “No, I probably wouldn’t.” He is not going to give her up even though he is married, that is how she translates his words in her thoughts. It does not sound as terrible as she expected, and she knows she should be more upset, or at least dismayed, but a part of her simply reads it as: ‘he chose me’, and Mon Mothma finds it very difficult to get past that observation.

“Call me when all is set, and I’ll visit Eriadu,” she agrees finally.

“I will.” He is searching her face for something, and apparently does not find it, because he does not try to kiss her, just takes her hand and brushes his lips across her fingers in a half-intimate, half-courtly gesture. “Until then, senator.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_And something of a teaser for the next chapter:_

_ _

_(Bazylia paints. Or at least tries to.)_


	9. Chapter 9

Wilhuff welcomes her at the spaceport, dressed in full planetary governor’s regalia. They exchange polite, official greetings, and then he leads her to a shuttle. On the way to the Governor’s Palace, he plays the tour guide, telling her about the districts and buildings they are passing. She pretends to be interested in the view behind the transparisteel pane, but glances at Wilhuff from time to time. Keeping a noncommittal, polite smile plastered to her face, she wonders how it would be to undress him. How the fur of his heavy coat would feel under her fingers if she kissed him, how it would be to untie the complicated knot and slip the blood-red scarf off his neck... Wilhuff catches her gaze and smiles at her briefly, his trademark smug smile. It must pose no difficulty for him to guess what she is thinking about. And, given that it has been over two months since their last meeting, she would bet his thoughts take similar course.

“Enjoying the trip so far, senator?” he asks.

“Admiring the view, governor,” she replies, with a small smile that no one could find inappropriate. But there is a mischievous look in her eyes.

“Don’t you find it boring, after Coruscant?” He means the Eriadu capital’s cityscape, or at least manages to sound as if he did, but the double meaning of his question does not escape her notice, and Mon Mothma finds it very difficult not to laugh.

Fortunately, she is able to constrain her amusement to a small smile. “Not really.” She glances outside, this time actually paying attention to what she sees. “Based on what you said, I imagined Eriadu would be a little less industrialised.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint. There are some wild areas left, like the Carrion Plateau...”

“Any chance we could see it?” Mon Mothma interrupts.

“The Carrion is no place for a lady,” Wilhuff replies curtly.

“Still considering me a lady, governor?” She smiles teasingly, abandoning all pretence. “I’m not sure whether I should be flattered or offended...”

He smiles briefly. “I meant it as a compliment, my dear senator.”

She shakes her head. “You’re like your planet, aren’t you? All civilised on the outside, but hiding a wildness at heart?”

At that, he laughs. “I’d never have guessed you could be so poetic.” His usual serious expression is back – his smiles and laughter never last very long, which makes each of them all the more rewarding – but by the look in his eyes she can tell that he is amused. “Perhaps there’s some truth to that,” he adds, his lips curling up slightly into not quite a smile. “I think you should be able to judge that yourself after this trip.”

“You mean after seeing you in your natural environment?”

He chuckles. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And that’s why you like me, governor.” Mon Mothma smiles seductively. “Admit it.”

“That’s one of your many commendable qualities,” he replies smoothly, which causes her to giggle.

She laughs very often in his presence – because his dry, witty remarks amuse her as much as his rare attempts at jesting – sometimes she thinks she laughs too often. It is a contrast to Wilhuff’s usually serious demeanour, and she would think that such behaviour would put a man like him off, making her seem too frivolous, too skittish. Surprisingly, Wilhuff is not annoyed by that, but rather seems to enjoy it, in his own peculiar, not very expressive way. And because they have no better topics for conversation right now, she decides to simply ask him about that.

“Doesn’t it get on your nerves?”

He raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“My constant laughter,” she clarifies.

“Should it?” There is a slightest hint of a smile on his lips. Seeing her expectant look, he shakes his head lightly. “No, it doesn’t. On the contrary. When you meet my wife, you’ll understand how refreshing I find it.”

“Now, governor, that was a low blow, and unfair to the poor lady. It’s not like you’re a paragon of merriment yourself,” she points out.

“There’s a difference between self-control and not having a sense of humour,” he retorts, which causes her to laugh again.

“Is it really that bad?”

“It’s bearable.” He shrugs. “Especially when I spend almost half of my time off-planet, and make sure the other half is always filled with duties.”

Mon Mothma shakes her head. “Wilhuff, you’re terrible,” she scolds him, but her tone and smile belie her words.

“You certainly seem to enjoy it,” he observes.

She does, much more than she should, she knows. Especially seeing him like that – slightly more relaxed than he is on Coruscant, which is not surprising, considering that he is at home, in his domain.

. . .

There is a woman waiting for them at the Palace gates. She is tall, pretty, has a perfect figure and splendid, long black hair, plaited into intricate braids. At her side, there is a dark-haired boy, tall for his age – he might be seven or eight years old – who is trying very hard to hide his excitement at seeing his father’s seemingly important guest.

“My wife, Thalassa,” Wilhuff introduces the woman. “And my son, Garoche,” he adds, smiling down at the boy and putting a hand on his shoulder. He looks around, his lips pressed together into a thin, harsh line, but the look in his eyes is fond rather than stern. “And my niece Rivoche is somewhere around the Palace,” he adds, glancing at his wife, who just shakes her head.

“You know you’re the only one in this household she listens to, husband,” she says by the way of explanation.

Mon Mothma smiles to herself inwardly. She can easily understand Wilhuff’s lenience towards the girl – because that is how he would imagine Mon Mothma was like when she was a child – and it would not be far from truth.

Wilhuff turns towards her. “And this is senator Mon Mothma of Chandrila.”

“Pleased to meet you, lady Tarkin,” Mon Mothma says in a polite tone, not showing how sour the last two words seem to taste. Then she crouches to be at eye level with Wilhuff’s son. “And you, young gentleman.”

The boy beams. Then, as Wilhuff gives a quiet cough, he becomes serious and bows to her. Mon Mothma claps her hand together, in a somewhat theatrical display of delight, but the dismay on lady Tarkin’s face and the way Garoche smiles at her make it totally worth it. As does the brief glint of amusement in Wilhuff’s eyes.

“It’s always an honour to have a visitor from the Senate,” Thalassa says pleasantly enough, if somewhat too stiffly. “And my husband’s friends are my friends, too.”

Wilhuff nods curtly; a signal that the introductions are over. “Please see to dinner,” he asks his wife. “And I’ll show the senator her rooms.” Then he turns to his son. “Go find Rivoche for me, will you?”

Garoche smiles and is ready to run off, but at a quiet cough from his mother he slows down. Thalassa nods at Mon Mothma and walks after her son.

For a moment, Mon Mothma watches the boy. He remind her of Kaila’s children – lively and with similar curiosity in his eyes. And while it is clear that Garoche respects his mother, it seems he adores his father.

“Senator?” Wilhuff offers her his arm.

She puts her hand in the crook of his elbow, very lightly, and takes care to maintain proper distance. While this is a gesture allowed between friends, it could easily be read as more. Well, yes, they are more than friends, but that is not exactly the impression she wants anyone to get, especially not Wilhuff’s wife.

The Palace is simple, but elegant enough in its design. Inside, though, it looks differently – paintings and sculptures and other works of art, curtains and drapes, floor tiles so clear they are gleaming, and lush rugs. Decorating the house must be something of Thalassa’s hobby, and Mon Mothma has to admit that Wilhuff’s wife has excellent taste.

She is admiring another painting, and she barely notices a girl who runs out of one of the rooms almost straight into her. Wilhuff pulls Mon Mothma aside, then looks at the girl sternly.

“Rivoche.” His tone is frigid.

“I’m sorry, uncle.” The girl glances down, trying to look apologetic, but she cannot really hide that she is smiling. She has auburn hair, pulled into a braid, and when she looks up again, Mon Mothma can see that her eyes are blue, like Wilhuff’s.

“No running.” Wilhuff raises a finger to emphasize his point.

Rivoche actually manages to seem truly sorry. “I won’t do it again, uncle.”

Wilhuff shakes his head, and then finally smiles briefly. “We both know you will. But don’t do it in the main hall, and don’t run into my guests.”

“Yes, uncle.” The corners of the girl’s lips are twitching up.

“My unruly niece, Rivoche,” says Wilhuff with a sigh, introducing the girl. “And this is senator Mon Mothma.”

Rivoche beams. “The same who manages to win against you in holochess?”

Wilhuff rolls his eyes, but Mon Mothma speaks before he can say anything.

“The very same,” she confirms with a smile. “Pleased to meet you.”

Surprisingly, Rivoche curtsies, the move graceful and almost serious. It would do credit even to a girl twice her age – and she does not look older than Wilhuff’s son.

“It’s an honour, senator,” she says in a clear, polite voice.

Mon Mothma laughs, delighted. “First rate diplomat material.”

“Probably,” Wilhuff says. “I’m not sure whether I should be glad or terrified.” He looks at his niece. “Go find your cousin and tell him he can stop looking for you. And if you both behave, you’ll watch me and the senator play chess in the evening.”

For a moment Rivoche looks as if she was about to hug her uncle, but then she glances at Mon Mothma and just beams at him. “Yes, sir!” She smiles at Mon Mothma and then walks away, the patter of her feet against the stone floor growing quicker as soon as she disappears behind the corner.

Mon Mothma turns to Wilhuff. “Raising a little rebel in your house, governor?” she teases.

“Ah, she knows perfectly how far she can go. There are some borders I won’t let her cross, and she knows that well.” Wilhuff shakes his head, but he is smiling. “As you said, first rate diplomat material.”

“I like her already,” Mon Mothma says with a smile.

“And she adores you from the moment she heard that you’d won against me in holochess. Something she herself has not managed to do yet.”

“She’s only, what, eight?”

“Nine. She could stand her own against most of your fellow senators, though.”

“That famous Tarkin intellect?” Mon Mothma asks.

Wilhuff smiles, not without pride. “You really should see Garoche playing chess.”

“That can be arranged, can’t it?” She gently tugs at his arm. “Come on, governor. I’d like to get to my room and change, and then go to dinner. Preferably soon, because I’m starving.”

“Of course, senator,” he says as they resume walking. “Welcome to Eriadu, Reila,” he adds quietly; a more intimate greeting.

She smiles at him. “Oh, I’m sure I’ll enjoy every moment here.”

. . .

It is difficult to enjoy talking to lady Tarkin, though. She is polite, even kind, but Mon Mothma does enough small talk at work, and finds it boring.

She would rather have a less formal dinner with Wilhuff, but meeting his family and seeing them together is kind of the point of her visit. So she keeps smiling charmingly and talking... and watching.

Lady Tarkin is pretty enough that Mon Mothma can easily understand how getting a son with her has probably posed no difficulty for Wilhuff. She cannot really imagine a man that would refuse.

But still, the Tarkins have only one son. And, two years after meeting her, Wilhuff still returns to her. That has to count for something.

The longer they talk, the more obvious the answer seems. Lady Tarkin is intelligent, but nowhere as bright and ambitious as her husband; pretty, but not a woman who could ever intrigue him or spark his interest. It is obvious they are allies and work as a team for the good of the family, and he is respectful and polite to her, but little more. Clearly, there are no feelings involved. To think of it, the only time Mon Mothma has ever seen him display any real affection more openly was when she saw Wilhuff with his son and niece.

She does not mind. He respects her and enjoys her company, and so she does not even bother with the question if there are any deeper feelings between them. What does it matter? Love was not what she was after, anyway. She appreciates that they never run out of topics for conversation, and how every political discussion with him is a challenge. Wilhuff Tarkin is a man whose ambition, confidence – some would call it stubbornness or pride, and occasionally she does, too – and iron will rival her own, and that gives her fulfilment she has not found in any affair before.

. . .

“So, you are one of my husband’s numerous friends in the world of politics?” lady Thalassa asks, with polite interest and a polite smile, watching Mon Mothma closely.

There may be no love between lady Tarkin and her husband, but Mon Mothma is not going to risk giving any clues about her affair with Wilhuff, just in case. Still, there is no point in lying when telling some truth might prove a much better cover.

“I wouldn’t go as far as calling us friends,” she answers, with a laugh. “But governor Tarkin is a formidable opponent in holochess, and good players are difficult to come by.”

“Well, he definitely beats me every time we play,” lady Thalassa smiles, not entirely honestly.

“Oh, he beats me most of the times, too. I’m just too stubborn to stop trying,” Mon Mothma replies with a smile.

They are sitting in one of the day rooms, sipping wine and talking. Garoche and Rivoche are playing chess at a holotable by the window, and Wilhuff is sitting nearby, watching the game and giving advice every now and then.

“Does it pay off?” Thalassa asks after a moment, and she seems genuinely amused.

“Hard to say. I win about forty percent of our matches now, instead of thirty something, so at this rate, I might start winning regularly just about when I retire,” Mon Mothma says, and they both laugh honestly.

Lady Thalassa has become much more friendly after she overheard that Mon Mothma’s heated discussion with Wilhuff concerned politics and nothing more. She chats a bit more openly now, and much of what she says is about her husband, whom she is clearly proud of. And since boasting about her husband seems to please lady Tarkin immensely, Mon Mothma lets her talk, occasionally just adding a short remark or asking a question.

“And did you know he writes?” Thalassa asks, having finished talking of Wilhuff’s accomplishments as the planetary governor.

Mon Mothma nods. “I’ve read some of his works. His treaty on authority and power is positively fascinating, even if I don’t agree with the author’s point of view.”

Thalassa smiles. “Did you know he used to write poetry, too?” She glances at her husband and notices his scowl, but pays absolutely no attention to it, and turns back to the slightly surprised Mon Mothma. “Ah, I see you didn’t. I can send you a copy.”

Mon Mothma grins. “I’d love that.” She cheerfully ignores the displeased look on Wilhuff’s face. “Your husband is definitely a man of many talents.” Though she is not going to mention some of them aloud, especially not to his wife... But the idea that she might know those particular talents of his better than lady Tarkin has the sweet taste of triumph.

“He definitely is. Now please excuse me, I have to put the children to bed.” Thalassa gathers her skirts and gets up. “Garoche, Rivoche, time to say goodnight.”

Garoche quickly saves the game, which they are probably going to finish the next day, and then together with Rivoche they say goodnight, first to Mon Mothma, then to Wilhuff. He ruffles their hair, and they retaliate by hugging him briefly, both at once. Wilhuff shoos them away, making a stern face. His wife gives him a look of mild disapproval, but does comment, only wishes her husband and his guest goodnight and leads the children out of the room.

Wilhuff gets up and pours two cups of emerald wine. With a move of his head, he indicates the chess table, glancing a question at Mon Mothma. She nods, moving to the holotable, and after a while they are both sitting over the chessboard, sipping wine and playing. Chess is their favourite game, but it also has another advantage – if anyone looked into the room, they would be sitting at a proper distance and not arouse any suspicions, while being able to talk comfortably about anything they like. They are both excellent diplomats, which means they can keep neutral, seemingly genuine polite smiles plastered to their faces even while flirting.

For some time, they just sit in silence, simply enjoying the game and each other’s company. That is another thing she likes in Wilhuff – that on the rare occasions they do not feel like talking, he knows how to be silent. When she glances up and smiles at him, he almost smiles, too.

“What are you thinking of?” he asks.

“Your bed,” she answers, smiling languidly. They are alone, and since there is no surveillance in the room – not audio, at least, she recalls from what he told her earlier – she can go a bit further and flirt.

His face remains impassive, but there is a glint in his eyes. “First thing we’ll take care of when we’re back on Coruscant. But not here.”

She suppresses a laugh. “I didn’t expect you to. Even my insolence has limits, you know.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “You don’t say...”

“You are incorrigible, governor.” This time, she laughs openly. “I wouldn’t. Not in your marital bed.”

“That’s simply my bed,” he corrects, emphasizing the pronoun. “We are – were – ah, old-fashioned about marital matters.”

So Wilhuff and his wife do not share a bedroom. But that is a fairly common practice in the world of politics. For a moment Mon Mothma wonders how surreal it is that they are discussing his marriage… But then again, Wilhuff has no reservations about telling something he thinks should be said. Then the meaning of his words sinks in. He has admitted, indirectly, that he does not sleep with his wife any longer.

Mon Mothma smiles. Oh, there are things he will never say aloud, and this is one of them. But she can see and recognize all the little signs for what they are. It is too early to say for certain, but everything indicates that she is the woman of Wilhuff Tarkin’s life.

“What is it?” Wilhuff looks at her, eyebrows arched. He looks both curious and amused. “You look as if you won a holochess match against me.”

Her smile widens. “You could say so.” She leans towards him a little. “Diplomat takes General,” she whispers.

She expects that he will tease her back or perhaps smile, but instead, Wilhuff laughs. “On Coruscant,” he promises. “Patience, senator. Patience.”

 “Patience is not a virtue I’d associate with you, governor.” She moves away with a smirk, and then laughs. “And certainly not a virtue I associate with myself.”


End file.
